


Silhouettes

by DepravedDoll



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Betrayal, Bottom Will, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Past, Dark Will Graham, Drama, Dreams and Nightmares, F/F, F/M, Forgiveness, Home, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Missing Scene, Murder, Murder Husbands, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Possessive Behavior, Possessive Hannibal, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Protective Hannibal, Requited Love, Revelations, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Top Hannibal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-04-27 19:12:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5060656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DepravedDoll/pseuds/DepravedDoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For years since they had met, he had dreamt in blood and obscured versions of reality. The darkness and violence had been unexpected and yet strangely exhilarating. It had borne a part of himself he wasn’t aware had existed, a part desperate for revenge, blinded by rage, a part that managed to forgive the worst. He had enjoyed retuning to Hannibal, showing up at his door and twisting him to his will, had enjoyed fighting against him, relished the easy push and pull of the dance that Hannibal had always led. </p>
<p>Missing scenes from The Wrath of the Lamb and the aftermath of the fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was a little idea sparked following the ending events and all the little glimpses of the moments started but not finished in the finale. My take on what happened during the drive and the time alone before the Dragon arrived. I enjoy writing these two, as difficult as they can be some times, I hope I have captured them as best I can. Let me know what you think, it would be greatly appreciated.

He thinks now that the fall started long ago, he struggles to pinpoint the exact moment, but he can remember this burning heat in the pit of his stomach as far back as their first encounter. He can see Hannibal sleeping in the chair beside Abigail’s hospital bed, as though it were only yesterday, hand resting softly atop her own, cuff of his shirt stained with blood. It had seemed so out of place then, that deep red crimson marring something so pristine. He remembers how his hands had carefully pushed his own from her neck, lifting her head and holding the life inside her.

It would take him a long time to learn how Hannibal had carefully controlled the lives and deaths of the people around them. How he could easily give and easily take away, the indifference at the decision of something as complex as life, seemed to be so natural for him and Will could understand that feeling through association alone.

When he had told Hannibal all those years ago that he didn’t find him interesting, it hadn’t phased the Doctor at all, almost sparked a challenge in him. He had been proving him wrong ever since, when he had calmly saved Abigail, stayed beside her whilst she slept. Cared for her after, there was something he found drawing.

Something had grown between them from those moments and this thing took on a life and desire of its own. He had grown with it, fuelled with the warmth and violence thrust upon him. He grew to enjoy the Doctors company, to see him as a friend, he craved his presence, trusted his advice. Secretly, he had enjoyed the way the elder would smile at the sight of him, his lips twisting just so, such a subtle change, but Will had easily felt it mirrored against his own lips.

The darkness and violence had been unexpected and yet strangely exhilarating. It had borne a part of himself he wasn’t aware had existed, a part desperate for revenge, blinded by rage and a part that managed to forgive the worst. He had enjoyed retuning to Hannibal, showing up at his door and twisting him to his will, had enjoyed fighting against him, relished the easy push and pull of the dance that Hannibal had always led.

He had dreamt in blood and obscured versions of reality, seen the inhuman Hannibal and the stag that had coerced him closer to the precipice. He had seen the points where he should have turned away, seen the moments he could have dived further, could have changed his decisions and he wonders where they would be had he chosen a different path.

Hannibal had once forced him to kill, sending Randall Tier crashing through his window and he had killed him with his hands, snapping his neck, seeing the Doctor in his place all the while. He had presented him to Hannibal, a macabre gift deposited on his dining room table, how proud he had been, how enamoured, he still remembers the others hands against his own, bandaging the split and skinless knuckles. He had felt something then, something incomprehensible, as most sensations beside Hannibal were.

Hannibal had stopped him from killing too, his thumb preventing the hammer from snapping, from releasing the bullet and shattering the skull before him. He had been proud then too, that very sense overwhelming and he remembers Hannibal’s hand against his face, the smile on his lips, Will thinks he should have known then where this would end. He had been conflicted for months, no longer feeling like himself in his own skin and with Hannibal, things were easier, he didn’t have to hide himself or the changes that had started to overwhelm him.

Alana had told him their relationship was destructive and Hannibal had cut into his gut and held him tight, the blood pouring between them. He had given Abigail back that day and taken her again, slitting her throat and this time those expert hands didn’t hold the life inside her and Will didn’t have the strength to do what the Doctor had once done. She bled out on the kitchen floor and Will knew she wouldn’t wake up, knew that he would, that this mark, this brand, would serve as a permanent reminder of Hannibal’s disappointment, his hurt at Will’s betrayal.

He had left the others bleeding but alive; fate had not decided their survival, that had been predetermined by Hannibal and in effect by Will. Still, once all was said and done, he had gone to the Doctor, because everything seemed to lead back to him.

So here they sat, on opposite sides of an FBI transport van, Hannibal caged and muzzled like a rabid dog, a shotgun held in the hands of the agent opposite him. Will briefly wondered if that was to ensure his safety against Hannibal or himself, maybe both. It was a strange sensation, to surround himself with innocent people he was sure would shortly be dead. Hannibal’s eyes met his own and he knew the Doctor was smiling beneath the mask. Will almost enjoys the sense of power he feels over the other, he controls the escape route to freedom. He briefly thinks of Jack, wonders if he expected this to go smoothly, or if he had predicted this plan would falter.

The sounds of bullets confirm his suspicions and the drive becomes violent with a bullet lodged in the drivers skull. Everything after that moves quicker than he had expected, the van leaves the road, he slams into the cage and Hannibal, even then, seems unmoving, as though gravity cannot touch him. With the sudden stop Will is thrown back against the other side of the van, his head connecting with the metal and his vision swims. He can’t keep focus when those doors open, when the light floods in, he hears the agent beside him fumbling with the gun and hears the bullet tearing through his skull moments later, the shotgun clattering uselessly to the floor.

Dolarhyde doesn’t wait for them, opening the cage containing Hannibal and leaving the carnage behind. The Doctor turns, managing to manoeuvre out of the constraints of the straight jacket and walking away from Will into the sunlight. The jacket slips to the floor and he unclips the mask, allows it to clatter forgotten to the ground, he turns his face up to the sun as he leaves the van. Seems to relish in the moment and Will briefly reflects on his own time locked away, a much shorter incarceration than Hannibal’s own and he can only wonder what thoughts pass through the elders mind.

He pulls himself from the van moments later, leaving the collateral damage of FBI agents behind like a forgotten memory. Hannibal is smirking and moving to a patrol car, mocking Will as he removes the dead body from the driver’s seat and takes its place.

“Going my way?” proceeded by the sound of another body hitting the floor with, what has become, a familiar thud. He studies Hannibal, the angles of his face, the smirk that doesn’t seem to fade as he relishes in the destruction, the chase and hunt, he even seems to enjoy being the hunted. He slips into the passenger seat, because really what else is there to do than follow the man that brought him to this point. “Was this all part of your plan,” he enquires following the soft click of the door.

“Are you asking if I engineered the deaths of these people?” He’s not surprised, not even really sure how to answer, he had known they would die, wasn’t aware of how soon.

“I find it hard to believe you were unaware your choices would lead us here, your plans always seem to end this way, am I to believe its coincidence.” He doesn’t look at Will as he speaks, his eyes on the road, Will allows him to take control of this plan, leaving Jack and the FBI in the dust. He thinks of Jack, wonders when he will start questioning him, when he will start hunting him, he had considered that any slight divergence from the plan would instantly incur speculation.

He thinks of Alana, he imagines she has packed up her life, her family, left her notice and fled into the wind, for her life. She had been uncertain of this plan from the moment he had spoken it, not confident in no longer holding the keys containing Hannibal Lecter, she had made a deal with the devil and the devil was being set loose. He assumes that knowledge would make many people nervous.

“Where are we going?” Will asks after a prolonged silence, when the air seemed suffocating, when he doubted himself and his best laid plans.

“Home,” is the simple answer he receives, “where Abigail and I would spend our time, she loved the ocean,” a silence, a heartbeat filled with memory, “she loved you.” Silence again, Will hasn’t thought about Abigail for some time, “of course you replaced her with another, you replaced us all in some way, even yourself. The life that had become your security, was it liberating or isolating, perhaps even suffocating.”

“I think we have spent more than enough time speaking about me, Doctor Lecter, perhaps we should talk about you. How was your time incarcerated?” He wants to irritate the Doctor, to exploit any weaknesses, to learn the buttons to press.

“Refreshing, I had a lot of time to think, to reflect, I have always found isolation to be a very liberating process. I have you to thank for that Will, for your carefully calculated rejection, tell me, did you plan to keep me caged indefinitely, or only until the world became too mundane, until you couldn’t take the steady tick of the metronome any longer.”

“Are you suggesting I crave chaos, that you are the only one who can sustain me.” He doesn’t look at Hannibal, stares out of the window at the world that blurs around them. Hannibal considers this for a moment.

“We are here together, are we not, Dolarhyde is a worthy adversary but one I am certain you could have disposed of with another. Or perhaps you wish to dispose of both of us, tell me Will, do you still dream of killing me?” It’s a complicated question and he cannot voice the answer, has he dreamt of Hannibal’s blood on his hands, of course, was it his plan to see the Dragon and the Chesapeake Ripper fight to the death, to rid himself of the burden of the feelings and darkness he didn’t want. Some days he didn’t know how he felt about Hannibal, didn’t know if he wanted to push him away or keep him close.

He had wanted to go to him, on so many occasions, he had felt himself beckoned, pushed by the stag he was certain had shuddered its last breath in Hannibal’s kitchen. Molly had kept him focused, kept him with the dogs, busy and tethered in the real world. He was grateful for that, but some nights he had craved the other, found himself clutching at the letters passed to him by the FBI, the ones he kept from Molly and burnt after reading. Watching the flames destroy the connection between them and making him crave the next.

“I have come to the realisation separation may not be an indefinite option.” Because he had been lying when he had said he wouldn’t go looking for him, because in the end, their paths were always destined to entangle and he could no longer differentiate his own path.

“Had the dragon truly killed himself, what then? You seemed content to allow separation to continue at that avenue, would you have returned to your wife. Would it have felt the same, would she have accepted this version of you, you the changed version of her?”

“Molly hasn’t changed, she has always been strong, your attempt… hasn’t changed that.”

“No and nor should it, however, the perception you have of her has.” Hannibal is goading him, he doesn’t rise to it, swallows the words that rise in his throat. Although he knows he is right, he had been unsure how they could return to their previous normality after this. “You could have stayed with her, whilst she recuperated, ensured her safety from the Dragon, yet you chose to come to me.”

“The best way to ensure her safety is to completely eliminate the threats that pose the danger.” He glances at Hannibal and their eyes connect, there is an almost delicate smile to the elder’s lips. Even though he knows it shouldn’t be there, he can feel the same expression on his own face. Hannibal breaks the connection first, returning his attention to the road, they are far away from the main roads now, the track winding higher and higher atop the cliff. The landscape has been changing slowly, from urban to a more rural setting, sparse woodland and dusty fields stretching for miles.

“You become more cunning by the second.” There is that echo of pride to the words, the same one from years ago, memories of Hannibal’s hand against his face, lips close. “We are almost there,” the silence that engulfs them after that is comfortable, Will enjoys it, realises how much he has missed their conversations, how much he has denied himself.

It seems strange, the house atop the cliff, nothing like what he presumed Hannibal would choose from the outside. They survey their surroundings, walking to the edge of the cliff face and staring down into the waters below. Calmer than Will had first thought they would be, a gentle lap against the receding rocks. Inside the house was more to Hannibal’s tastes, the antiques and wonderful paintings, the darker pallets and intriguing artwork. The grand piano before the glass looking out onto the setting sun, he can see Hannibal there, with Abigail beside him, her head resting against his shoulder as he played.

He allows his hand to hover over the keys, he can see how content she was, how Hannibal cared for her, he even allows himself to picture himself there with them.

“I taught her a little, she was always so intrigued, but a difficult student,” Hannibal offers a smile with the memory. “She would become easily distracted, easily frustrated,”

“You have never played for me,” he finds himself lost somewhere between now and then, shadows of Abigail from a time lost since past.

“You never afforded me the opportunity, there was much I wished to experience with you,” he seems impossibly close, even though he is not at all. In another life he thinks he may have joined Hannibal on this piano bench as his hands moved across the keys, he thinks he would have enjoyed the tunes he would play as the moonlight bathed them, the sea roiling below. He thinks Abigail would have been asleep and Hannibal would have guided his hands to the keys, shadowed them as they moved. Instead they stand meters apart, Hannibal watching him as he disappears into another time. “Help yourself to anything; there is a room down the hall with some clothes that should fit you, should you wish to change.”

“How long before company arrives,” he stands before the glass wall, staring out as the endless expanse before him.

“Perhaps he is watching us already, deciding how best to attack, biding his time.” He turns then, disappears down the hall and there is a gentle click of a door opening and closing. He hears the faint sound of water, of the shower running, he knows he could use this time to contact Jack, to tell him where they are. He has no plans to do such a thing, had left his phone behind in the van so that he could not be traced, he pretended it had been an accident, that it had slipped from his pocket, but he remembers the weight of it in his hand and the clatter against the floor. He thinks there is something telling in that.

He wanders the house, finds the room that Abigail must have habited during her time here, there are sketches she left on the desk. He thinks she picked up many of Hannibal’s traits during their time together, wonders if she would have picked up some of his, had he come with them. Wonders if she would have favoured some of Will’s activities over Hannibal’s, gone fishing with him as Hannibal cooked for them. He thinks they would have made a very different family to the one he had with Molly and Walter.

The room becomes suffocating, too many memories, too many thoughts and potential moments that had never and would never be. He leaves and finds the other room; the one Hannibal had talked of. He cleans himself up, chooses not to change in rebellion against the Doctor and untucks his shirt to conceal the gun. He can hear Hannibal in the kitchen, the familiar sounds of him preparing a meal, he feels instantly drawn to him and is moving before he even really considers it.

The sun is low on the horizon as he steps back into the open plan living area, he thinks they have a few hours before Dolarhyde comes for them. His preference for the moonlight a tell-tale trait, the scent from the kitchen is heavenly. When he sees Hannibal he forgets that the Doctor has been locked away in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane for the past three years. He is dressed more casually than he would be during their therapy sessions, but not un-similar to those first few days they had spent in each other’s company.

The jumper appears to be cashmere, the trousers expensive and clinging just so to his legs. A blazer is draped over the chair closest to the kitchen, matching the fabric the trousers are made from. He turns, his back facing to Will as he tends to the food cooking atop the stove.

“Is there something on your mind Will?” He turns then, back to the kitchen island, there is a box of fresh ingredients on the work surface between them. Will glances at the carefully wrapped items within.

“I didn’t think it would be possible to get a delivery this far out.” He covers, slightly leaning against the side as he watches Hannibal move, watches his hands, his arms and the muscles moving beneath fabric and flesh.

“With the right connections anything is possible,” he selects a cut of meat from inside the box, delicately wrapped in butchers paper, he pulls on the twine, peeling away the paper and his fingertips trail the filet steak.

“I never realised you were so well connected,” he could look away, could walk away now, focus on the piano, the landscape before them, the artwork, but he doesn’t want to. He feels liberated in that revelation, in that self-admission and that he will allow himself to stand and watch the elder in his element. He can imagine Abigail sat on the couch in the other room, phone in her hand and Hannibal would admonish her for having her legs over the arm of the couch.

“There are many things you don’t know about me,” he’s seasoning the steaks and the pan beside him crackles when the meat is placed to it. He thinks that’s a fair statement to make, he doesn’t know all of Hannibal’s past, doesn’t know how he became the man he is, only parts, fragments. He doesn’t know what it’s like to allow himself to be close to this man, to accept the destruction. “This was Abigail’s favourite dish, she told me how she liked the simplicity, how it reminded her of a time long since passed.” He’s pouring them both a glass of wine, Will accepts the glass offered, bringing it to his lips, the flavour is mellow, winter berries, rich and delectable on his palette.

“You miss her,” it’s a thought he speaks aloud, a realisation that slips from his lips before he can catch it. Hannibal glances at him, their eyes lock momentarily and he’s unsure exactly what he is reading in those too dark eyes.

“Of course, I cared for her dearly, she would never have left without you, do you presume she would have survived prison with the stigma against her name.” There is anger, betrayal and a sorrow that coats it all like a sticky honey, it’s fleeting, a flash of burning hot remembrance, Hannibal had made peace with this, if he had even felt the conflict over his choices initially.

“You blame me,” he knows it, has known it for years and had blamed himself in equal measure. He never spoken of her, not to Jack, Alana, nor to Molly, sometimes he would see her, hair catching on the wind rolling off the lake. Stood before the fire as they ate dinner, he would see her in his dreams drowning in blood, again and again.

“I forgave you and you I, then we betray and blame, forgive again, it’s a vicious and yet unbreakable cycle.” Hannibal speaks as he plates up dinner, slow and careful and with the same precision he has to everything in life.

“A hurricane, destroying everything in its path,” because that’s what they are, like Alana had said, destructive and deadly to those who came too close.

“There is beauty in the hurricane Will, peace at the centre of the storm, a peace unlike any other.” Will has to contend to the description, because when he finds himself this close to Hannibal he does feel strangely at ease, at peace, more so than anywhere else. “Shall we,” he gestures to the table, carefully laid for two, Will moves to the seat furthest from the kitchen and Hannibal follows, placing the plate before him and taking the seat opposite.

He sees Abigail sat at the head of the table, between them, she’s got a wistful smile to her lips. For a moment she’s covered in blood, neck a gaping bloody mess and then she’s perfectly dressed, expensive clothes, hair falling in dark soft waves, eyes bright and full of life. She’s talking, no words reach them in the world they inhabit and Will almost believes, if he could reach for her, he could pull her to them from another time.

“Do you see her, even now?” Hannibal asks, slicing the steak, the blood running as the knife splits the meat with ease.

“This place, it’s filled with the very essence of her, like shadows of her playing across the walls. There was a time where I saw her so much I thought she still lived, then a time where I didn’t see her at all.” She’s gone then, like she never even was and his attention moves to his plate, he follows Hannibal’s movements, slicing into his steak and when he places it in his mouth it melts like butter. He relishes the flavours, savours them on his tongue, when he glances up, Hannibal is watching him, dark eyes focused intently.

“She would be happy you were here, happy we both are, that’s all she ever wanted, a family, all any of us ever wanted.” He tears his gaze away, lifts the wine glass to his lips and drinks slowly before placing the glass back atop the perfectly polished table. “Tell me, is this our last super?”

“If it is, I can think of no finer dish,” he thinks he could let it all end here, end in blood, wonders if it might be good for the world to lose the three of them in one night. Will knows what he is capable of, what he has the potential for, it’s always been something he’s struggled to come to terms with. Only able to face the darkest parts of himself within Hannibal’s presence, he had tried to bury it with Molly, locking it away in the furthest rooms of his mind palace and for a time that had worked. He almost allowed himself to believe those parts of him didn’t exist anymore, but some nights he would wake in a cold sweat, dreaming of killing alongside Hannibal, the blood thick and cooling on his skin.

He would tell Molly he had dreamt of old cases, wouldn’t speak any more of it. He would descend the staircase and sit in the living room, facing an empty chair and loose himself to Hannibal’s office and familiar words echoing in his head. He would allow himself to fall asleep there, the sound of the Doctors voice strangely soothing. They finish the meal in silence, it’s comfortable and easy as most silences between them are. Will finds his gaze drawn to Hannibal, finds the doctor already watching him, an almost wistful smile on his lips.

“I have missed dining with you Will, if this is to be my final meal, I can think of no better company to share this evening with.” Will knows Hannibal is remembering the betrayals that have proceeded this moment, he wonders if he thinks he will survive. Wonders if he thinks he will die at the Dragons hands or Will's own, Hannibal’s gaze is intense and it’s Will that finds himself shying away. “I shall clear away, our guest will be here soon and I have the perfect wine to accompany the occasion.” Suddenly all doubt seems gone, the Doctor rises from his seat, collects the plates and returns to the kitchen.

Once everything is cleared away and the home returned to its previously untouched state, Will finds himself drawn to the glass, staring out at the darkness and the moonlight streaming across the courtyard. He hears Hannibal’s footsteps walking away, secures the gun concealed beneath his shirt and stands and waits. It’s not long before the other is walking over to him, placing the familiar wine bottle on the piano as he polishes the glasses.

They talk as they always do, in riddles and of compassion and betrayal, neither one really willing to speak out and say what needs to be said. The bullet is unexpected and it’s a strange thing to watch Hannibal crumple to the floor in front of him, it’s always intrigued him, how much pain the Doctor can withstand, it raises questions that Will wants to explore. He’s certain it’s all linked to that past the other doesn’t wish to speak of, doesn’t want to remember. Will wants to know, despite it all he still wants to understand Hannibal Lecter, wants to be friends with Hannibal and run away with him.

He’s tried to bury that part of him, deny it, but it’s ingrained in him and he can no longer separate it or isolate it. He makes his decision long before the blade slides into his cheek and when he rips the knife out and plunges it into Dolarhyde, the blood lust that fills him is almost terrifying. He feels electric, nerves burning, heart pounding, he can sense Hannibal, every move, every thought, they work in sync, blurring into one as they so often do.

When they are done, when the Dragon is between them, blood staining the concrete beneath him, Will reaches for Hannibal. He doesn’t crave touch as a general rule, finds it overwhelming, but he desperately reaches for the other, holding to his hand as he pulls him to his feet and it’s not Hannibal pulling him tight as he fights the grasp. No, this time he is clinging to Hannibal, pulling him close, allowing himself to savour the emotions and revelations he has denied himself for so long.

He thinks he can allow himself this, this moment of weakness in what has been a lifetime of self-restraint. It shocks him how well they fit together, how much he enjoys the touch and the warmth radiating from Hannibal to him. He doesn’t trust himself, or his judgement, he allows his arms to wrap around Hannibal, to hold him, pressing himself close, before turning them both and instigating the fall from the cliff. He notes the lack of resistance from Hannibal and as they fall, the elder drawing him tighter.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a strange thing, to see Hannibal asleep, unmoving and vulnerable, he moves closer, studies the lines of his face. He watches the gentle rise and fall of his chest, finds his hand reaching out, holding against the other’s face, if only for a heartbeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am planning for updates to be weekly and for there to be multiple chapters detailing what happens after the fall.

He doesn’t remember much after the fall. He remembers the cold and the push and pull of the waves. He remembers Hannibal’s grip holding tight and thinks his strength is incomprehensible, the way he holds him close and breaches the waves, as though the current has no effect, drawing Will with him. The air is almost colder than the water when it hits the skin of his face, his injured cheek burning, he can feel his heartbeat there, feel the blood congealing. He should have known, with the amount of control Hannibal has shown surrounding life and death, that he would not let the water have them, that they would not sink.

He’s not sure if he is disappointed or relieved at the breath in his lungs. Consciousness comes and goes, he tries to hold to it but it evades him and he falls into the darkness. The next break of conscious thought he has is that he is warm, but his clothes are still damp, he is in a car, the heaters cranked up to full. Hannibal is beside him in the driver’s seat, he looks paler than normal but his focus remains the same as ever.

“You sleep like the dead, although perhaps not quite in the manner you had intended. Still, you should rest, conserve your strength.” He continues to speak, the words soft, no hint of the betrayal or disappointment Will had been expecting, he enjoys listening to him, the way his accent drapes the words he speaks. He tries to keep his focus on the words, but he can’t make out what’s being said, just the tune and tone.

When he wakes next it’s to the familiar crackling of a fireplace, the almost popping of the wood as it heats and bursts. He groans as he moves and there is a dull ache to his bones and muscles, he can feel the sedatives and painkillers as a heavy haze on his mind, like a fog coating his thoughts. The pain is present but bearable and he can feel the stiches in his cheek, his tongue gently brushes them, tightly spaced and a bandage protecting them from the air. His shoulder has also been stitched and his ribs bandaged. He would know Hannibal’s stitching anywhere, can tell how painstakingly he has worked to minimise any scarring. He almost laughs at that, wonders if that’s been done as they were not scars gifted by the Doctor himself.

He thinks of the other, remembers the bullet piercing his abdomen, Will is no Doctor but he knows the chances of that bullet missing an organ in an area so tightly packed is almost impossible. The emotion that grips him in that moment is not easily definable, it’s concern and fear, his heart and gut wrench and he grits his teeth as he pulls himself up in the bed. He tears himself from the covers, forcing any sharp stab of pain as deep as it will go.

“You should not be moving, Hannibal will be displeased if you tear your stitches.” He shouldn’t be surprised to hear the familiar accent, although he is surprised it’s not Hannibal berating him. There is a tray placed on the table beside him, before familiar hands help to move him back into bed with a strength he hadn’t expected. “You are worried about him,” she places the tray atop his lap, scrambled eggs, maple cured bacon and French toast. “You were not concerned with his well-being when you tumbled from the cliff,” judgement, he had expected as much.

“As you cared for mine when you pushed me from a moving train?"

“I have always cared for Hannibal’s well-being, you always seem to pose a threat to that.” She smiles, sits on the edge of the bed facing him, hands folded neatly in her lap. He watches her, studies her, tries to slip into her mind, the mind that has always been so closed to him. “He is resting, even Hannibal needs to recover from some wounds,” it seems strange to think of that, recuperation is not something he instantly connects to Hannibal Lecter. The Doctor seems almost untouchable for such mortal things.

“Where are we?" He asks as he picks up the fork, fingertips holding the silver, the metal cool against his skin.

“Somewhere safe, somewhere far enough away they will never look, with no connections to Hannibal or you.” She moves then, to the window and pushes the curtains back, staring out of the glass at the view beyond. He thinks she might be back in the crumbling castle he had found her in, wonders if she ever really left. “You should ensure you’re taking your antibiotics and medicines regularly, they are in the drawer beside you, guidelines are printed on the bottles.” He nods at the instructions and glances down at the drawer beside him.

“Prescription I presume, where did you get them?” He sees her then, bloody and cold, the Hannibal hiding beneath her skin. She smiles at him as she walks to the door.

“I have my connections, people I trust not to talk,” she’s deadly in that moment, a slight smile to her lips. “You should eat, you will need your strength,” she leaves then, the door clicking closed and her footsteps echoing in the hallway. He pushes at the food on his plate for a time, feels hungry but without the appetite to eat. It’s not long before he can feel the painkillers fading, the fog clearing, the pain fresh and sharp. He opens the drawer, grabbing for the small orange containers and scanning the descriptions printed on the labels.

He finds the painkillers, stronger than over the counter medication and more than enough to last him through to his recovery. He pops the lid and swallows two before eating as much of his breakfast as he can, if only to prevent the tablets from burning through his stomach. He doesn’t imagine Chiyoh would be too pleased about that. When the painkillers start working, flooding his blood and dulling his nerve endings, he pulls himself from the bed. He moves to the window, slow and unsure on his feet and pulls the curtain back, the warmth of the sunlight flooding his skin.

He has no idea where they are from the view, but it reminds him of his little house in Wolf Trap. Fields extending as far as the eye can see until they merge into woodlands.

He thinks of his dogs, thinks of Molly, wonders if she thinks he is dead, a hero for sacrificing himself to kill the monster Hannibal Lecter.

_“You know he was right,”_ he knows its Abigail from the soft lilt to her voice, he glances over his shoulder to see her sat on the bed. Silk scarf tied around her neck, hair falling in loose curls, a soft smile to her lips. _“It would have never been the same, the resentment would have grown. You are changed Will, or perhaps you never were who you pretended to be.”_ She speaks like Hannibal, sits like him, he wonders if this would have been the woman Abigail would have become had she lived. He likes to let himself think there would have been more of him in her traits.

“I like to allow myself the belief I am not as deceptive as Hannibal. There was a part of me that loved Molly and the life we had. There was also a part of me that always missed him, a part I tortured and buried, punished for its betrayal of what I should have been.”

_“Do you feel relief, at your becoming, we changed you and you, in turn us, or perhaps it was you who changed us first.”_ He thinks that may be accurate, Hannibal had developed compassion for him, inconvenient as it was and Abigail, she had seen a family she longed to be a part of, one she didn’t need to fear, until she did. He sees himself slit her throat before his eyes, sees the blood soak the expensive fabric of the suit she wears. He stares at the place the shadow of her had been long after she is gone. Wonders if she will haunt him forever, like the stag that sits in the distance, shrouded in the shade of the forest.

He pulls himself from the sunlight, moves to the door and bites his lip at the dull ache of his body protesting every step. He grabs the shirt hanging at the foot of the bed as he passes, slipping into the fabric as he moves into the corridor. There is a silence to the house that seems deafening and it’s somewhat disconcerting how he knows the steps to make to avoid creaking floor boards, how he knows what room to find the Doctor in when he has never been here before.

It’s a strange thing, to see Hannibal asleep, unmoving and vulnerable, he moves closer and studies the lines of his face. Watches the gentle rise and fall of his chest, finds his hand reaching out, holding against the other’s face, it’s only for a heartbeat and he pulls his hand back. Settling in the chair positioned beside the bed, he just watches, sits and waits, but for what he isn’t sure. He felt drawn here and he’s willing to admit Hannibal has been drawing him in for years. He had been worried, just like Chiyoh had said, because he was certain they would not survive separation.

He can remember Hannibal asleep in the hospital chair beside Abigail’s bed, the Doctors expression now a reflection of that time. The room surrounding them is to Hannibal’s tastes, the dark wood and silk the deepest of blues, the curtains are closed, blocking the sun, the only light from the fire in the corner of the room. He thinks of the times he himself had woken, knowing Hannibal had been watching over him. Thinks of the time he had carried him through the snow from Muskrat Farm, he can vaguely remember the motions, the way Hannibal had slipped the heavy coat from him, eased him into an old comfortable shirt. He can remember being placed into bed, the covers drawn around him, the fire stoked, remembers the scent of the Doctor.

It was a strange thing to think of the conflicting sides of Hannibal Lecter, the softness he could touch with, against the bite of a blade. He has seen such warmth in his expressions when he has looked at him and such cruelty in the aftermath of his actions. He finds himself wondering if the softness is something reserved purely for him. After all, Bedelia did not posses visible scars but her fear of Hannibal was apparent. No more so than when Will had told her of his plan.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” he had known she was there from the gentle footfalls she hadn’t tried to conceal.

“You don’t trust me,”

“You have given me no reason to,” she moves closer, he never once lets his gaze flit to her, keeps it trained on Hannibal. “He is heavily sedated, to prevent further injury,” he hears the words she doesn’t speak, merely infers. He wonders how much the bullet tore, how much damage Hannibal had done when pulling them from the Atlantic, carrying him to the car, he wonders how much punishment this man can withstand before he can take no more. “He had to ensure your safety before we could secure his own, but there is only so much even he can withstand.” There is a fondness when she looks at him, Will catches it out of the corner of his eye.

“What happened to him, what made him the way he is?”

“Those are not my stories to tell. Perhaps you should ask him, when he is awake, when you have both healed and the pains of this time have faded.” He feels almost jealous of the knowledge Chiyoh has of the Doctor’s past, of the history there, the things Hannibal has kept buried. “Does it terrify you, what you might become,”

“My becoming, has been a long and painful process, I have had time to adjust. What of you Chiyoh, the things you are capable of, that you never thought you were, does that terrify you.”

“No, it has given me greater purpose, I have you to thank for that.” She is staring at him, watching every movement, reading him, “tell me Will, why did you reject him,”

“I rejected the parts of myself I couldn’t accept, the parts that kept us atop the cliff, the ones that fought them, had us falling to the sea.”

“Will you fight them forever?”

“The last of my fight sunk with the current, the rejected parts are all that’s left, all that he saved.” Will knows he has denied himself much, his desperation to be good, to be morale, to be what the people surrounding him had expected and wanted. It was that very reason he had surrounded himself with good people, Jack and Alana, Beverley, Molly, hoping their morality would seep into him and drown the darkness swelling from within. It had been a darkness that had started long before Hannibal, darkness that had him withdrawing from everything and everyone but his dogs. Hannibal had enjoyed the darkness in him, drawn to it and his empathy for the things he was capable of, the darkness in him had craved the Doctor, ached for him. It had been unfamiliar and dangerous.

“Do you plan to wait beside him, until he wakes,” Will doesn’t speak, uncertain of his voice, “I tried to convince him to leave, to escape the cage you had planned for him, in the end, it was you he chose over all the other things he cared for in his life. He stayed in that cage for years, whilst you lived, married, existed in the world you wanted for yourself. I find myself intrigued to know how long he would have waited for you, how long you would have left him there.” Hannibal had posed a similar question to him and if Will was honest with himself, he would have tried to stay away, because he knew when he opened that door he would find it difficult, if not impossible, to close it again. “You can stay here, if you must but should you hurt him, I will kill you.”

“And I know how capable of that, you are, thanks to me,” she smiles and nods before leaving the room. When she is gone, the footsteps long since forgotten on the staircase, he shifts the chair closer to the bed, biting back a groan as he pulls at a torn and desperately fusing muscle. He leans forward in the chair, allows his fingertips to meet the flesh of the Doctors hand, he traces the skin with the lightest of touches, feeling the faintest of pulses within the veins he maps.

He can’t recall the moment he falls asleep, but in his dreams he is sinking, heavy like a stone, the water is cool against his skin, the silence wonderful, easing the drumming in his mind. He loses himself in the waves, in the current that draws him deeper towards the sea bed. He closes his eyes to the darkness around him and when he opens them he is in Hannibal’s office, the Doctor is sat opposite him, suit pristine, not a hair out of place. The suit is dark, a gently patterned fabric with accents of red. They don’t speak for a time, just sit and stare whilst the clock ticks and the fire roars. He can hear his heartbeat pounding in his chest.

“I’ve been having this very dream for years," Will explains, "replaying words we have said within these walls. Sometimes I kill you, slitting your throat or gutting you.” The Doctor smiles, his lips twisting just so in a way that stirs a strange sensation in the pit of Will’s stomach and he swallows against the lump that forms in his throat.

“Our dreams are shadows of our deepest fears and desires. The subconscious bleeding into the conscious mind. The complexity of these emotions within such a separated part of ourselves can be misleading, easily misconstrued and interpreted incorrectly. Perhaps these are things we don’t wish to understand about ourselves, that would seem particularly accurate in respect of yourself.” Hannibal explains, voice soft and melodic.

“My dreams can be so very real, sometimes I allow myself to believe they are reality, I see myself and Abigail, we left with you. I see the life we could have lived in Florence and imagine the things you would have shown me, the school she would have attended, I resent the part of me that took that away, that wouldn’t allow me to accept you.” Will admits,

“You allow yourself clarity in these moments, that you would not in the light of day. It is easier to admit to the darkness in a dream. Here there is no judgement, no prying eyes, the world bends to your will, it is what you want it to be, morality and ethics have no place here." He is standing then, moving closer, "In your waking moments you can admonish the dream, attribute the feelings you had to exhaustion, long hours at work or the terrible things you have seen. In the end they are just figments of a dream world and no one will know of them if you do not speak of them.” Hannibal is close now, stood behind him and leaning in, his lips against the shell of Will’s ear, words ghosting across his skin.

“In the moonlight I knew what I wanted, what I desired and who I was, the idea of the sunlight had me dragging us to the sea. Back to the darkness,” he is atop the cliff in that moment, with his head resting against the other’s chest, the heart beating heavy and steady beneath the strong muscle. He allows himself to relive that moment, to relinquish any of the doubts that had held him.

“Do you intend to kill me,” Hannibal asks, slight uncertainty edging at the words.

“No, I intend to survive with you, to understand you and perhaps even finally understand myself.” It's all but a whisper from Will's lips, barely audible above the sounds of the sea below.

“All easily admitted here, where you can cast your morality and doubts aside, but upon waking, they will return to you.” Will wants something he cannot even allow himself in these moments, because it’s something he is so uncertain of, something he cannot understand and so he holds Hannibal tightly. Pushing against him, he lets them fall again but all he can remember is the way Hannibal fits against him.

He’s vaguely aware of speaking, of words spoken in a foreign tongue. The more consciousness that returns to him, the more pain flaring beneath his skin. He wants to return to the painless slumber, to Hannibal’s arms and the feeling of everything fitting into place. The way he had felt comfortable in his skin, cut and bruised as it had been. When he opens his eyes Chiyoh is sat at the foot of Hannibal’s bed, her back to Will. The Doctor himself is awake and sat upright, there is a tray of food before him and Will shifts in his seat to alert them to his presence. 

“You’re awake, at last, there is some food beside you and some more painkillers,” she rises to her feet, “I will leave you alone to speak." She excuses herself and makes her way to the door, Hannibal offers his thanks as she slips out, closing the door behind her. There is an initial silence after her exit whereby Will studies the side of Hannibal’s face.

“You should eat, build up your strength, we won’t be staying for long." Hannibal states and places the cutlery onto the plate, pushing the tray away slightly. His attention is on Will then, intense and overwhelming as always.

“You have a plan, I presume, know where we should go, how we will get there,” Will asks as he brings the tray onto his lap, pushes absentmindedly at the meal for a moment before taking a mouthful.

“I have my connections, of course, that’s only if you aren’t planning a change of heart. Perhaps you have considered returning to your family and handing me over to Jack, upholding your end of the bargain.” Will keeps his eyes off the Doctor as he speaks, attention kept on the plate before him.

Will is silent for a moment, considering his words carefully before speaking them aloud. "That life feels like someone else lived it, I can’t imagine how maddeningly polite that would be now, after my becoming.” Hannibal smirks and Will enjoys the change to his lips, he doesn’t admit to it, but it heats his blood just slightly. “How is your abdomen?”

“A mild inconvenience but healing nicely. Chiyoh’s connections appears capable, although the stitching is not as precise as my own.” He smiles at Will and earns himself one back in return, “I will have another scar to add to the collection.”

“We are both covered in scars, marked by one another.” Will's eyes drift to the scars along Hannibal’s forearms, he has enjoyed the knowledge that he has marked the Doctor for some time, feels as though he cut into his skin himself. He knows the way the blade would feel, knows exactly how to cut, the scent of his blood, he can feel it coating his fingers and savours the way the copper flowers against his lips. 

“Was your intention to kill us, when you pushed us into the sea?" It's a question that Will hadn't expected and instantly has him forgetting his appetite. Hannibal’s gaze remains fixed on him, burning through him.

“There was a part of me that believed it would be a fitting end, that I would find peace in that final act, that the world would be a better place without us in it.” A moment of reflection, consideration, “I am, content, with the outcome, I feel as though I have been lost in a fog for most of my life and that fog is finally beginning to clear.” Will does not meet that gaze, allowing his words alone to convey the truths he feels in his bones.

“You feel changed, I too feel changed, by you,” Hannibal said simply whilst watching Will, observing his mannerisms, the subtle changes in his posture and the slight twist of a smile to his lips. watches as Will keeps his hands on the cutlery in his grasp, holding tight to prevent his hands from straying. “We should leave, the longer we stay here, the greater risk we take of being discovered and leading Jack here." a break of silence. "I have no doubt he will find another capable young profiler to replace you.”

“I wonder of your plans, you’ve had time to consider this, connections who would put the requests into motion long before I visited you.” Will smiles as he speaks, he enjoys Hannibal’s smirk, it’s sinfully devilish and the sight of it has a shudder running the length of his spine.

“Indeed," the elder talks through the smile, "Jack will hunt us. He will not like being played the fool and does not believe we have perished against the rocks. Wouldn’t believe it without a body or two to confirm it." the Doctor seems distant then, perhaps caught in a memory long past. "Time forgives all manner of crime Will, whether an individual is incarcerated or not, the most gruesome of actions becomes a myth, construed by whispers.” Will watches him, he thinks that is true. Thinks they will be forgotten with time, the price on their heads wavering and those who run from them now will become complacent. They will convince themselves they must have died in the fall, they will forget, Will feels a violence rush against his skin and knows Hannibal sees it, relishes it.

“Where will we go?" Will finally asks, although in truth he doesn’t need to know. Hannibal will guide him and he will follow. This time he will run, he will savour the time with this man, the one who sparks such torturous electricity beneath his skin.

“There are a few possibilities,” Hannibal explains. He has properties in most countries, all carefully purchased under false identities, no connections, no way to link them together. Hannibal has been hiding in plain sight all of his life, but he had always known a time would come where that would no longer be possible. “A few years ago, I acquired a comfortable coach house in Scotland, not far from Inverness, but far enough to be secluded, private. Inverness busy enough for us to blend in and not be noticed. It was partially renovated and there is work still to keep us busy. I think you would like it, we could go there, leave tonight.”

“Just catch a plane?" Will asks, "Jack will expect us to leave the country.” 

“Most will presume us dead." Hannibal points out, "Even perhaps Jack for a time. Chiyoh has arranged new passports for us, new identities," He lets his words sink in before continuing. "Remember Will, it was you who found Bedelia and I in Italy. I drew you in and Jack followed, he doesn’t have you to follow anymore.” Will leans back in the chair smirking.

“Then it’s agreed, we leave tonight, almost polite,” Will agrees and Hannibal merely smirks. There is a moment where Will wonders, had their injuries not drained them so, if the Doctor would be reaching for him. Fingertips threading into his hair, he can almost feel the ghost of the touch at the thought.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His attention strays to the window when the plane is in the air, the lights of the city below sparkling between clouds, like fragments of jewels, surrounded by darkness. Will can count the number of times he has been on a plane on one hand, usually preferring to travel by boat or train. The list of countries he has visited minimal, most ventured in his search for the man now occupying the seat beside him. He finds the very presence of him is a strange sort of comfort, even with the tension and the pain borne of the last few days still coiling within his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so this took a little longer than I intended, but the last couple of weeks have been manic and from the feedback from the last chapter I really wanted to check through before posting. I hope this has improved on the last chapter :) thanks for the kind words and suggestions, they have really helped me and I hope this shows in this chapter. 
> 
> I hope I haven't missed anything this time, or made any silly mistakes.

The flight time is eight hours, Hannibal arranges tickets for them, seats in first class, the security systems are lax at best and they slip through whilst carefully avoiding sparsely placed cameras. Will quickly realises that well dressed, champagne sipping members of society draw little attention, even with stitches still healing. Hannibal guides him, a hand on the small of his back, the pressure to the touch light, just enough to be registered through the expensive coat he wears.

If Chiyoh had been surprised they were leaving she had not shown it, she had insisted they would see each other soon, whispered promises of catching up with Uncle Robertus and Aunt Murasaki.

They had packed light, what they took with them fitting into the overhead compartments of the plane and Will had settled in his seat beside the window, Hannibal next to him. The other seats around them mostly empty, the flight unpopular for the unsavoury hour. The air hostess smiles at them as she bends to offer them champagne and Will thinks it would be rude to refuse. The tension in his shoulders seems to subside as he leans into the seat and he realises that he doesn’t feel as out of place as he presumed he would, he considers that may be due to Hannibal being at his side.

He observes the man beside him for a time, the crystal champagne flute held delicately in his grasp. He’s dressed in a grey three piece suit, the fabric expensive and his hair shorter than Will is used to, to his silent revelation he has enjoyed this change, finds it appealing.

Whenever she stops beside them, the air hostess blushes at Hannibal’s accent and the wonderful words he speaks to her, at how exotic he is and Will feels a flash of a sensation in his gut not unlike jealousy. He swallows that emotion like a bitter pill, washes it down with a swig of champagne. He is distantly aware of the throb in his cheek as the bubbles fizz against the wound, the bandage removed; he tugs the scarf higher, hiding the stitching from view as best he can. In a ghost of a half conceived memory he can feel Hannibal’s hands against his face, cleaning and stitching the wound, can hear the words he had spoken.

His attention strays to the window when the plane is in the air, the lights of the city below sparkling between clouds, like fragments of jewels, surrounded by darkness. Will can count the number of times he has been on a plane on one hand, usually preferring to travel by boat or train. The list of countries he has visited minimal, most ventured in his search for the man now occupying the seat beside him. He finds the very presence of him is a strange sort of comfort, even with the tension and the pain borne of the last few days still coiling within his chest.

Due to the flight times and time difference, they arrive at Edinburgh airport at midday the following afternoon. Transport is waiting for them and again they easily pass through security, new passports crisp and clean as they are glanced over. Hannibal holds the door of the taxi open for Will, slipping beside him and closing the door, legs brushing slightly as Hannibal gives directions to the driver, easily, as though he has been here a thousand times before. Will notices that his accent seems less pronounced, as though he holds it back just slightly, just enough to be more forgettable in the driver’s busy life.

The drive is long and Will observes the changing landscapes with intrigue, he enjoys the change from city to rural, the landscapes of forests and mountains in the distance. The weather is chilled, late summer turning to autumn, the abundance of trees beginning to turn, leaves starting to wither and fall, he thinks there is a chance of rain as the clouds roll in, heavy and dark against the pale blue sky.

By the time they arrive at the imposing coach house Will feels the exhaustion heavy in his bones. Hannibal pays the taxi driver, tips him well and sends him on his way, then joins Will, standing in the centre of the winding gravel driveway leading to the house. There is a lake beside them, speckled by the early falling leaves from the surrounding trees. The house itself is larger than Will is used to, grey stone and a large porch at the front built from wood, aged drying logs stacked up to the tiled roof. The whole place reminds him of the little home he had sacrificed in Wolf Trap, with a grandeur that little house could never match.

“I have had builders working here for some time. The place was derelict when I purchased it, merely a shell. It’s liveable now, safe from the elements,” and then after a moment, “shall we?” the Doctor gestures to the house, his hand falling to the small of Will’s back and leading him slowly to the door. They leave the bags in the hallway as they slip from their coats, the hallway is beautiful, dark blue wallpaper and polished wood panelling, a beautiful restored antique staircase leading to the floor above them. To their left there is a door to the kitchen, their right, the large living space containing large couches and high back armchairs, an open fire in the very centre of the room. It feels cosy and inviting, despite the abundance of space.

Will can feel Hannibal’s eyes on him, then his hand enclosing around his shoulder, “come, I shall light the fire, you look exhausted.” It amazes Will how the journey seems to have had little effect on the Doctor, but has drained him. He presumes Hannibal has become used to the flights, to the time difference, wonders if he will get used to it, in the end. He watches Hannibal slip from his jacket, unbuttoning and removing the waistcoat before rolling up the sleeves of his shirt and bending to light the fire. Will settles on the couch beside him, realises that he has always enjoyed the sight of Hannibal like this, somewhat undone.

“This place, it’s beautiful,” Will states as the fire roars to life before him, painting Hannibal in bright flames. “What drew you to it?” a soft smile lifts the corner of the elders lips as he regards the man beside him.

“I thought you would like it. There is a homely peaceful sense to it,” there is a pause for a time as the doctor considers his words before continuing; “the very essence of it reminded me of you.”

“You brought it, because you thought I would like it,” the thought crosses his mind and is spoken before he truly contemplates the words and what they mean.

“This home will have as much of your input as mine, a culmination of us both contained in these old walls. I want you to feel at home here, Will, with me.” Will keeps himself in the neutrality the distance provides, but the other’s words send a spark tumbling through him that he cannot deny.

“I’m not too sure you appreciate my tastes, they are not as refined as yours,” the doctor moves then, to the couch opposite, he regards Will in silence for a time, hands folded neatly in his lap, the flames casting shadows across him. Will, observes him, really looks at him, at the little things he hasn’t seen, but for fractured memories, for some time. There’s a little scar now, beneath his right eye, where the skin tightens across a cheekbone, the familiar twist at the corner of his lips. Their eyes lock and Will doesn’t avoid the eye contact, doesn’t defer his gaze to the cheekbone or the empty space just next to the doctor’s head. Will doesn’t make eye contact as a rule, never used to, before Hannibal, but he is drawn to Hannibal, to the dark gaze and the gears turning behind them.

“I appreciate them more than you care to know, have even come to miss that terrible aftershave you would wear. Changed now, since your marriage,” a smirk as he perhaps catches the scent on the air, “I’m not too sure this alternative is much better.” Will wonders if he can smell Molly in that scent, her perfume lingering on his skin, wonders if it drives him mad. He thinks back to standing in Hannibal’s office before the fireplace, casting evidence into the fire, watching the paper catch and burn, the ink burning bright green, a sudden vibrant flame. He had visited Freddie, before the Doctor, wonders now if his intention had always been for Hannibal to smell her on him, he had lent in close, closer than he normally would.

“I’ve never paid much mind to that sort of thing, Christmas and birthday presents provide an adequate and constantly replenished stock.”

“Your family, have they residence in your mind palace? Do you see them as you saw Abigail and I, with the visions who represented us?” Will considers that for a moment, feels like Hannibal will read into the answer, imagines they are back in his office in Baltimore. Even now he sees the stag resting beside the Doctor, regarding Will with silent indifference. He can picture Abigail on the couch beside Hannibal but he doesn’t see Molly, nor Walter, he wonders about that.

“It’s been a very long time since you were my therapist Doctor Lecter,” Hannibal nods, a smirk on his lips, as if that alone, is answer enough. Will thinks it pleases the doctor to know that he thought of him whilst he was with his wife and yet now he is with him, her memory fades quickly. He thinks of Molly of course, but not with the vibrancy he had thought of Hannibal, thinking he could touch him if he had only reached for him, that dreams were reality and the reality he lived the dream. She is in sepia tones, a scent swept by the wind, an image come and gone, nothing to hold to, only to let go of.

“No, I was replaced, by my wife, no less, was she an adequate replacement?” Will frowns at the mere mention of Bedelia, her certainty, her goading, echoing inside of his mind. He let her see the darkness in him, the only other place he felt able to let it show, he had wanted to intimidate her, to terrify her. He wonders why he wanted that, why she so easily had his blood boiling, his thoughts turning crimson with the heavy scent of copper sweeping over them.

“She has her charms,” he says carefully, smirking, dark and deadly, Hannibal returns the expression. He stands then, moving to Will, his fingertips a ghost of pressure against his jaw. He pushes slightly, turning his head so he can survey the cut and stitching, harsh against pale skin, hidden slightly by the course stubble. Hannibal’s thumb moves just beneath the wound, pushing with a little more force, uncomfortable but not painful, not unwanted.

“That she does, she considers herself very clever, playing with matches and not once burnt, she sees herself victorious, untouchable.” Hannibal says and Will finds his hand moving as the Doctor's fingertips begin to slip, as if to pull away, Will stops the withdrawal, pressing and keeping the warmth of the other’s skin against his own.

“She is fearful, of us, of me,” He enjoys the admission and the way the Doctor regards him, unmoving, almost uncertain, it’s an interesting side of Hannibal Lecter, something very unfamiliar, Will enjoys it.

“You pose a great threat to her wellbeing; she knows you have a distaste of her, that her usual expert manipulations will not affect you. Do you wish to kill her, Will?” he considers that, shakes his head to indicate he does not, he can’t read if that disappoints Hannibal or not.

“No… she prides herself on being unscathed, unscarred, at the centre of the sword fight, missing every parry. Merely coercing the blades to other targets, she thinks she is smarter than us.” He thinks for a moment, “she will be uncertain, question if we have perished, she will be in hiding, but she won’t hide forever,” Hannibal doesn’t even ask before Will answers, “we wait, let time pass, let her believe the lies. She will come back to her life, her home, she will return and then we will pay our dear friend a visit.” There’s darkness to him, it swells within, feels right situated between the muscle and bones. He feels relief, allowing his hold to loosen, allowing the revelation that he wants Bedelia to suffer to wash over him. He felt it before, in her office, relishing in it and the distress it caused her.

“As you wish,” Hannibal says, they part then, hands slipping apart and the heat dissipating from where the Doctors’ hand had been only moments before. “We should rest, it’s been a long day,” Will nods in agreement, standing to join the elder male, he glances at the fire, the heat warming the room and the hallway after it. His bones feel heavy, like lead beneath his skin, he wonders briefly if he has the energy for a shower, but he knows that can wait until the morning and follows Hannibal silently to the staircase.

The bedroom is vast, wonderful ornate features decorate the space and antique furniture is throughout. The moment he sits on the edge of the bed he feels the need to sleep wash over him. His shoulder is sore, but bearable, healing, even with the movements of the day resulting in additional strain. Hannibal sits beside him and Will knows the travelling and his own injuries are starting to affect him. Yet further confirmation of humanity Will was sure did not exist. He smiles slightly to himself at the thought.

“You’ll stay, won’t you?” Will asks before he even really considers what it is the words mean, he’s not used to speaking his mind, to allowing the thoughts unbidden and to actually ask for what he wants. He doesn’t look at the man beside him, he is sure there is an eyebrow raised in question and the hint of a smile that reaches the corners of his eyes.

“If that is what you want,” his words are carefully selected, not leading, not dissuading.

“I have trouble sleeping, I find being alone can exasperate this, I would appreciate the company,” he reasons, though he is unsure why. Hannibal had already agreed to the terms, as Will knew he would.

They change in silence, having brought up the small bags of belongings they had with them moments before. Whilst Will settles into the bed, beneath the silken sheets that rest light and soft against his skin. Hannibal sits in the chair opposite, the light from the table there casting a gentle glow over him as his hands turn through pages of the book he holds. They say nothing more and it’s not long before Will finds himself falling asleep.

XxXxXxX

In the days that follow, they wander the grounds after breakfast deciding on the jobs of the day, Will enjoys working with his hands, fixing and building. They learn the roads and the villages surrounding them, the people, their names and faces. Will learns his alias, builds his story with every question, simple, uncomplicated and easily forgettable to the people he tells it to. They settle quickly and easily into one another’s company, cook together, Hannibal teaching him. Some nights they cook fish Will has caught in the lakes and rivers that connect them. Other nights ingredients of Hannibal’s choosing, Will learns the most in those evenings, enjoys the way the Doctors hands guide his own and the closeness between them.

There is still a distance there, even when the months have passed and the building work on the house is nearing completion. Save for a brush of hands here, lips too close to skin there, they do not explore the feelings they had admitted atop that cliff. They have not killed since the Dragon, Will is certain Hannibal has done that to keep any unwanted attention from them. A few of the workmen they had employed being more than a little rude, Hannibal had always requested a business card from them before they left, the smile cold, a well versed mask.

With their wounds long since healed they settle easily into a normality of sorts, Will finds a strange sense of peace in Hannibal’s presence. Sometimes he will see Abigail, when he’s working in the gardens, or waiting in the car when he has journeyed to town.

“ _I’m wherever you go, a shadow when the sun sets, a dream when your eyes close, a ghost when your memories race. The potential when you look at him and see him for what he is.”_ She had explained, as he had slipped into the car, there only a moment and then gone, a figment of something he can’t let go of, a piece of guilt buried deep inside him and that, he is sure, will stay with him forever.

She catches him off guard when he’s buying groceries, standing in the midst of a busy street, her hair catching on the wind created by the cars rushing by her. She’s not staring at him and he follows her gaze to a man leaning against his car, lighting up a cigarette, he can recall catching glimpses of him before. Finds his interest piqued, he memorises the plates, the face, knows he was once law enforcement but there is not the morality within his bones to keep him in the role. There is a fire beneath Will’s skin as his mind races, knowing what this is and where it leads. He smiles at the man as he passes, slipping into his own car, Abigail beside him, they both regard the man for a moment, note the way he itches to enter his own vehicle, deciding against it whilst they watch.

_“He’s watching us,”_ She states, a venom to her words that is both his influence and Hannibal’s in equal measure. “ _He thinks himself smart, this investigator, I think he’s out of his depth, will you kill him, or lead him to Hannibal?”_ She asks, smirking, staring at him, hands folded neatly in her lap.

“We shall see, should he follow us, we will have little choice, although I like it here, would like to stay for a while longer.” He admits and starts the car, pulling out of the space and back onto the main road. He isn’t followed, not this time, he checks to make sure.

XxXxxXxxx

Hannibal surprises him often, little unexpected gestures, things he would not expect him to say or do. That evening he finds the familiar sound of paws against the wooden floors, a small mongrel dog running up to him where he sits beside the fire. There is uncertainty at first as the animal regards his new companion, sniffing the air and moving closer to Will’s outstretched hand. He allows him time, to become used to his presence, before reaching out and stroking behind his ears. He smiles, bright, glances up at where Hannibal leans against the doorframe.

“I haven’t seen that smile in a long time,” the Doctor states, staying in the shelter of the doorway. “He’s a stray, I know you’re partial to them, the lady down the road rescued him but her dog doesn’t care for him, so she asked if we would consider taking him. I insisted you would adore him, so he is yours.” Will laughs, a gentle breathy sound, the dog now nuzzling at his hand where it had stilled.

“What’s his name?” He asks and Hannibal smirks, a slight chuckle escaping his lips.

“Jack, if you would believe it,” the humour is not lost on him, “looks like you have become fast friends, though really, there was never any doubt, I should start dinner.” He states before excusing himself, Will watches him go. He waits for a moment, then rises and grabs the blanket off the arm of the couch folding it and placing it before the fireplace, the dog settles there instantly, yawning and stretching under the warmth of the fire. Will leaves him there, glances back at him when he reaches the doorway, he smirks, he had been certain Hannibal would not allow him a stray and realises in that moment that he still doesn’t fully understand the Doctor.

He finds him in the kitchen, jacket discarded and shirt sleeves rolled up, they don’t speak initially, Will selects a bottle of wine from the fridge, suitable to accompany the salmon sizzling in the pan. He pours them both a glass and then takes a seat at the island where Hannibal is preparing the dish.

“You don’t like dogs,” Will waits for the response, though it’s not a question, more a statement, Hannibal smirks, his hands stilling against the knife, eyes rising to meet Will’s own.

“I never said I didn’t like dogs. I liked your dogs, even looked after them in your absence. Whilst I would not have a pack as you did, I know you missed them, thought it would make you happy.” Hannibal says before returning his attention to the ingredients before him.  Will’s eyes don’t stray from the elders form, he smiles, feeling the warmth of it in his blood.

“There’s a private investigator following us,” Will explains and still the Doctor continues with his preparations, not glancing up.

“I know… what should we do about him?” Hannibal enquires and Will is certain he knows what he wants the answer to be.

“We should find out who employed him, if anyone, we have many enemies after all,” Hannibal nods in agreement.

“Then what, allow him to go on his way as long as he promises not to speak of what he found to anyone, regardless of the offers extended to him?” Hannibal’s hands still, he lifts his gaze to Will, watching, waiting for the response to his question. The profiler smirks at the question, takes a sip of his wine as he contemplates his own morality and ethics, much changed since the days he had spent working alongside Jack Crawford.

“We kill him,” he’s calm and certain as he speaks the words, their last kill had been the Dragon. He wonders what this kill will be like, if it will be clean and precise or messy, will he himself be blood soaked, clinging to the doctor, there’s apart of him that feels a thrill at the thought.

“There is a bloodlust in you,” Hannibal smiles, excitement and pride holding to his words, Will smiles back at him.

Dinner is served shortly after, a small plate of fish put aside for Jack who strays into the kitchen at the sound of cutlery and scent of food. He is a mixture of different breeds, small and stocky, short haired, one pointed ear and one folded over, he walks with his chest puffed out, as though he already owns the place. Will has missed the sound of paws, finds it comforting, his heart swells at the familiarity of the sound.

It’s much later, when they are sat in the living room; Jack curled up in front of the fire, when Will thanks the Doctor. The words catch Hannibal off guard; he places the bookmark to his page before placing the book on the table beside him and offering his attention solely to Will.

“For the dog? He needed a home, reminded me of you in a way,” Hannibal quips and smiles, Will has begun to enjoy the way that looks on the Doctor.

“For that, amongst other things,” Will says, thinks they are both changed now, accepting of the new lives they have found themselves in. There are compromises they have made, things they have learnt, Will still knows little of Hannibal’s past, they have spoken a little of their parents in passing conversations. Will knows Hannibal’s mother had been loving, kind, she had doted on he and his sister and she had died, horribly, but the details surrounding that remained carefully guarded. “You’ve never asked about the cliff, about what that meant, never pushed. We dance around each other, fleeting touches and glances held too long, everything is complicated, yet somehow easier to understand when it’s spelled out in violence and blood.”

“Blood and violence is what we understand best. The other emotions are the ones complex to us, the ones we take longer to consider.” A moment of silence, of contemplation before continuing, “Survival is easy to work out, but a lingering touch can mean many things, easily confused. Declarations of love and compassion are not our native tongue.” Hannibal’s right of course, Will has always found emotions like love and friendship alien, he understands the premise, the need, not the way to voice them.

“Yet you bring me a dog, you would not have one for yourself. He was a gift for me,” Will finds that interesting, that the Doctor would bring him a gift, that he would want to bring a little of his past to their present. Hannibal smiles, their eyes locking, holding whilst they speak.

“I told you, some time ago, that I wished this house to hold as much of your input as my own. How could this ever truly be a home to you without a stray to care for?” Will laughs at that, tears his gaze away to look at Jack where he snores quietly beside the fire. He finds it strange, had never imaged life with Hannibal could be so simple, so domestic. He enjoys this life, thrives within these walls, feels electrified at the others touch. This life fits to his skin much easier than the one he had clung to with Molly. There is silence for a while, a moment of reflection before the Doctor speaks again, “now tell me all you know about this investigator?”


End file.
